


(i wish you could be with me) in these last days when i am still hopelessly poor

by majesdane



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-08
Updated: 2010-02-08
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:44:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It'd be nice, to escape. To be a little less lonely.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	(i wish you could be with me) in these last days when i am still hopelessly poor

  
to: you  
every office memo dreamed of being a love letter. if only it had the words.

\-- _pleasefindthis_

 

 

 

(It's just fucking art college.)

It really shouldn't bother her this much, she doesn't think, even as she can feel a headache coming on from being too angry and sad all at once. It's just fucking art college and it shouldn't really be such a big fucking deal, it's not as if she can't also take a minor in something more practical (that's what her mum calls all the courses she hates -- 'practical' -- as if anything really fucking matters in the end, as if some courses are actually better than others). And really, that would be fine, she just really doesn't want her main course of study to be something _practical_ , which she doesn't think is such a bad thing to want, and it just shouldn't be a big fucking deal, except --

Except it really is.

She can feel tears stinging in her eyes and she swipes at the furiously, feeling her face grow hot with with embarrassment. Because it _is_ embarrassing, really, to be crying over _nothing_ , especially in a public place. So what if there's only a few people in the cab and they could give a toss about her (they aren't even looking at her, of course they aren't, and why would they be). But still it's embarrassing nonetheless, and she slinks down further in her seat, staring out the window and watching the scenery fly by. She wonders what it's like, out there. What the people are like. Who they are and what they're doing and what kind of lives they have. If they're happy or sad or stuck somewhere in between. She wonders if any of them feel lonely. Afraid. Desperate. Wonders if there are people out there who just want to escape; it won't matter _how_ , just that they _can_. There must be people like that, she thinks. Surely there must be. She just can't see them, flying by so fast.

(It'd be nice, to escape. To be a little less lonely.)

It's not really even about the fucking art college, really, even though it sort of is. Her mum wants her to stay here, in Bristol. Losing their dad made her mum all soft and weak and scared. Her mum doesn't understand how the house and their family and town just weigh down on you. Her mum really has no fucking clue. They weigh you down until you're trapped, stuck in one place forever. It's like drowning, almost, being sucked under the water, and wanting and trying so hard to swim back up to the surface, but you can't, because there are rocks tied to your ankles and they keep pulling you down. And you want to reach the surface, you want to breath _so bad_ , but your arms are just so tired and another part of you is just telling you to give up. To give in. To let yourself be sucked down to the bottom of the ocean and let everything go. Just let it all end.

(If she could just -- )

Everyone at Goldsmiths is rude and snotty and the way they act and talk make her feel stupid. She shouldn't be surprised; everyone is always like this, all the time. It was a mistake to come here, she thinks, kicking idly at the pavement with a scuffed shoe and wishing it was just time to go home already. (She could leave right now, maybe, but maybe also she can't; she's stuck. Again.) And then she sees _Her_ \-- it's really not difficult to spot Her, what with Her platinum blond hair, and something inside her lifts up just a bit at that, if only because she actually _knows_ someone here.

Naomi doesn't recognize her, though she smiles anyway, and there's just the slightest skip of Sophia's heart when her smile grows wider, more sincere, as Sophia explains she's also from Roundview. And it's nice, because it feels like Naomi's actually glad that _she's_ there as well, as if Naomi's actually as relieved to see _her_ as Sophia is to see _Naomi_. Naomi starts to introduce herself, but Sophia cuts her off.

I know who you are, she says. Everyone does.

(Everyone knows about Emily, too, of course, because there was that whole class president election thing in the common room, and then there was the other time, at the Love Ball (and _that_ had been a terrible waste, hadn't it; she'd left early and spent the rest of the evening getting drunk in her room and wishing Matt was around, because he always knew what to say to make her feel better -- well, he used to, she's not so sure about _now_ , they don't really talk anymore) and Sophia had always suspected Naomi was gay, but Emily came as a surprise because, well, really, _Katie_ \-- )

They go to the university pub. Arm-in-arm and Sophia can't remember the last time she's felt this _okay_.

She really doesn't like wine, but Naomi orders herself a glass of Pinot Grigot, and Sophia doesn't want to look like a boring loser, so she orders a glass as well. Naomi quirks an eyebrow and looks over at her curiously; Sophia isn't sure if she's pleased or confused or surprised at what, but Naomi doesn't say anything about it, so Sophia assumes she's pleasantly surprised. It seems right, anyway.

And then everything is really fun and quite nice, after they drink for a bit, and Sophia starts to forget. She forgets about her mum at home, forgets about Matt, who doesn't have any time for her anymore, forgets about her father. Forgets about what _happened_ to her father. She forgets about Bristol, about art college, about the sensation of drowning. Forgets about being tired and sad.

Forgets about Emily.

(Naomi makes her forget. That's the problem.)

The train ride home manages to be both infinitesimally longer and shorter at the same time. Sophia thinks that maybe it's because of Naomi, who she was in English and Maths with all last year; the world seems to have opened itself anew to her all of a sudden and she finds herself noticing things she never saw before. Like the sharpness of Naomi's eyes, brilliant sky blue and alert, or the way her hair falls out of her braids and she tucks it away carelessly behind an ear, or the curve of her wrist and slope of her neck and how her laugh and smile are both infectious. Sophia is quite certain that all of these traits never existed until now, until this very day. It simply wouldn't be possible for them to have existed before; she would have noticed.

Halfway through the trip, Naomi says, I had to tell a lie to come here.

Before she can stop herself, she says, I did too. She wonders what Naomi had to lie about -- wonders even more who Naomi lied _to_. Maybe Naomi is wondering the very same thing about her. Naomi smiles at her, softer this time than earlier that day; it's an understanding smile, Sophia knows. It means that she feels what Sophia feels -- maybe not in the same way, but there's still that layer of guilt under all the happiness. It's unmistakable.

It's then she notices their hands.

They're so close together; her heart feels like it's being squeezed, tighter and tighter the longer she looks. Naomi's is close enough so that Sophia could just reach out, cover it with her own. It would be fine, really. If Naomi pulled away, she could say it was just an accident, that it didn't mean anything at all. Naomi's hand is _right there_ , she could just -- she can't. There is some sort of invisible force keeping her hand pinned to the seat and as much as she wants to reach out with her fingers and stroke along the back of Naomi's hand, she can't. And it just looks so soft and pale, resting there on the dark blue train seats, and surely her heart shouldn't be beating quite this fast. There is something wrong and she can't move her hand and she wants to, but she just _can't_ , and then --

And then Naomi moves hers.

She looks up at Sophia and smiles again, that soft, sweet smile, and covers Sophia's hand with her own. It's softer than she could have ever imagined, somehow, Sophia thinks, amazed, when their fingers thread together and their palms are pressed flush together. And still there must be something wrong, because Naomi hasn't let go yet, even though they're nearing the stop for Bristol. There is still something wrong because Sophia still feels like she can't breathe and her heart's still beating double-time, and --

And then something in her just _gives_ , and it feels like she's flying. She's flying and Naomi's holding her hand and keeping her tethered to the ground.

(If only her mum knew -- knew about what love feels like. Her mum knows _nothing_ about love. She doesn't know what this feels like, to have someone like Naomi holding her hand on a train and smiling at her like that, and her hand is just so _warm_ , it shouldn't be possible. But it is, because that's what Naomi does; she makes things possible.)

In the distance, she can see Bristol looming, bright and glittering in the blackness like red and yellow stars.

(They still have a few minutes.)

(It will be okay.)


End file.
